


As It Was

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Series: Steter Week 2019 [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, American Politics, Angst, Brief Sexual Content, Character Death, M/M, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Apocalypse, Psychological Trauma, not Peter or Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 06:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20041201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: In the end, werewolves weren’t the catalyst.There wasn't true fear, there. There are means of control over werewolves. Even after they’ve lost everything- their home, their family, their pack- even then they can still be controlled through things like wolfsbane and mountain ash.Anything that can be controlled can be used.So it wasn’t werewolves that set things in motion.It was magic.





	As It Was

**Author's Note:**

> This is songfic, which means it must be 2007, which is weird because Teen Wolf didn't even air until four years after that. Anyway this note is a reminder to myself that the entire point of fic is self-indulgence, and I can steal Hozier songs to write stories for stolen characters on my stolen laptop. 
> 
> For day two of Steter Week, a kind of slant-wise combination of basasses in love and Alpha Peter.

Foxglove brushed his every step, countless before and endless to come.

* * *

In the end, werewolves weren’t the catalyst.

There wasn't true fear, there. There are means of control over werewolves. Even after they’ve lost everything- their home, their family, their pack- even then they can still be controlled through things like wolfsbane and mountain ash.

Anything that can be controlled can be used.

So it wasn’t werewolves that set things in motion.

It was magic.

* * *

Stiles used to laugh about it, in that sharp, hollow way that became his custom just after John died.

Everyone wanted to be Harry Potter until they found out that Harry might already be sitting next to them at the bar.

Everyone wanted magic to be real until suddenly it was.

Until they realized it couldn’t be _controlled._

Werewolves, the public took in stride. Werewolves could be identified. Werewolves were a commodity, beautiful and strong and everything that people wanted to be associated with.

You didn’t know a magic user until they’d already used it.

You didn’t know what _type_ of magic had been done unless the user deemed to tell you.

Sometimes, if they were inexperienced, even the user didn’t know how they’d done what they’d done.

It was concerning, local committees said.

It was dangerous, state representatives said.

It was criminal, federal leaders said.

And that was it.

Roughly 150,000 people in the US were deemed illegal. About half a percent of the total population.

The numbers they gave out couldn’t be trusted, obviously. Most magic users never came out in the first place, much less answered polls about it after their existence was considered a crime.

Of course, it was never phrased that way.

“No one is jailing mages for simply _having_ magic,” the law said. “That would be unconstitutional! They’re only jailed for _using _magic. They’re just as free to not practice magic as I am!”

No words from the law about how impossible that is. Not a single scientific citation. Nothing about how magic will burn a person from the inside out, eating up their body and their mind if it’s not used.

* * *

Traveling on foot takes a long time.

That only really matters if you know where your destination is.

When all you have is a pull, or direction, what does time matter? It will take as long as it takes, because all that matters is reaching him.

In a few days. Just a few days. A few days more.

* * *

Surprisingly, it wasn’t Beacon Hills’ shitfest that outed the supernatural population. The cause of that would actually be a live stream on Twitter.

A young 'were somewhere got startled, the video clip went viral in a matter of minutes, and there was no way to debunk it. That was that. Shapeshifters were real, and possibly living nextdoor.

Peter was immediately on edge, assuming that public fear would latch on to werewolves. Stiles assumed the same, and connected himself to a live feed of every report on ‘weres as if his life depended on it, ready to counter and discredit anyone who so much as breathed a negative opinion.

His attention was the reason he saw the writing on the wall before anyone else.

“They’re going to go after magic,” Stiles said into the silence one evening.

Peter’s eyes sharpened on Stiles, who was slouched on the couch, scrolling through his phone.

“What makes you say that?”

“Less of us. More dangerous. Harder to identify. No structured community means no cohesive way to communicate.” His eyes flicked up to Peters.

Peter saw fear there.

* * *

By the time they came for him, the fear was gone.

There was no room for it with the rage.

* * *

John was vocal about his stance against the forced registration of magic users during his re-election campaign.

He lost.

“It’s fine,” he’d said. “It’s probably time for me to retire anyway.”

Two weeks later, when he was killed in a hit and run, the paper made no mention of his office. 

* * *

Peter thought that might be the end of it all, right there. With Stiles, the moment he saw his father’s body.

Peter could see the snapping of tethers, feel the swelling of grief and rage that was spilling out of Stiles. He was utterly still in a way that was foreign to everything Peter knew about him. Peter could nearly see the taut energy, waiting to burst- to lash out in destruction built from pain.

“Are you going to burn yourself out?” he asked idly into the deathly still silence.

“I don’t know,” Stiles answered, monotone in his honesty.

“If you do, they’ll never pay.”

Stiles looked up at him, eyes burning.

The tethers bound to John, to home and family, to town loyalty and social goodwill- they snapped and frayed, unbound. Slowly, meticulously, Stiles gathered them one by one. And then he gave them to Peter. 

"We'll make them pay."

* * *

They dug into the accident that wasn’t an accident. It was just a matter of days before the culprit behind the wheel was dead.

They kept digging. A spider web of connections easily revealed themselves, too confident in their money and power to put much effort into hiding.

This party leader, that lobbyist, those investors- 

Peter and Stiles knew they couldn't take revenge on all of them. And there were others who carried more of the damage done at their hands. Other magic users, other 'weres, who had suffered directly due to the actions of the human monsters. So Peter and Stiles took care of the ones who directly touched the events that lead to John's death, and the rest-

The rest of the information, they gave to the ones who deserved to have it.

It didn't take long for the spider web to start shaking with murmurs of what was happening. The villains leaned on the press for pity of these poor men's families. Wasn't it _awful,_ wasn't it _wretched,_ wasn't it _terrible_\- a senator's death at the hands of a "darach" was front page news across the country. 

The six magic users shot to death in Kansas that same day somehow never made it to press. 

People started seeking out Peter and Stiles. They gave away any information they had about the beasts responsible, handed over with understanding and a sprig of foxglove. It wasn't long before they started pushing along other information too. 

Information on how to gather without being noticed. On how to shut down the movements of registration enforcers. Information, too, on how to hurt anyone who tried to stop them. 

It was an all out war, and the country didn't notice until it was too late. 

* * *

Peter knew exactly how they'd been found. 

Scott never did understand why Stiles was so against the federal registration of users.

"Dude, you have to get licensed to use a car. How is this any different?"

"I can't stop using magic, Scott. I have to use it up or it'll kill me," Stiles explained again, for the ten dozenth time, to the same pair of deaf ears. "I can't decide not to use it. Regular hands can be used to cause damage, too, but not everyone who uses their hands has to register them. Creating a register of magic users is just the first step to rounding us up under false charges." 

"Dude, you just have to trust the government-"

Needless to say, Stiles and Scott never came to an agreement. 

Scott withdrew more after John's death, making excuses to cover for his obvious discomfort around Stiles. He sent a bouquet of snapdragons and foxglove to the funeral. 

Yes, Peter knew exactly how they'd been found. 

When he woke up in the rowan lined jail cell, his first thought was of Stiles. His second thought was that there wouldn't be enough left of Scott McCall to bury. 

* * *

The bite Peter gave him wasn't actually intentional. Well, perhaps purposeful would be a better word. It wasn't _purposeful. _

Because it had in fact been his intention to bite Stiles. To mark him as deeply as he felt he'd been marked, to leave some kind of evidence of his adoration and possession. As Stiles fucked into him with every ounce ownership he had over Peter, Peter bit down on his shoulder, breaking the skin and sinking into muscle, and it sparked something. Something new. More than a pack bond, more than a mate bond- 

_More. _

Maybe it was a consequence of the extras that the nogitsune left behind. Maybe it was because of Peter's own dabbling in the afterlife and resurrection. Maybe it was just because they were already more than halfway underneath each other's skin, an understanding too deep to be held separate. So intertwined in their need for revenge that all it took was a slight push, and they were somehow fewer than two and more than one. 

It was that union that pulled him as he walked.

He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been walking. After waking up in the cell he took a moment to assess the number of guards, and then called on the magic accessible through his bond to tear his way out of the prison. He left behind corpses, wreckage, and nothing else.

Then he went to find Stiles. 

He avoided populated areas. He traveled as a wolf when he could, hunting when necessary. He was going to find Stiles. 

And then they were going to show them how dark a night could really be. 

* * *

Sometimes it felt as if the world had already ended and they were the only ones who knew. The life they were living wasn't one they recognized; it was other. This otherness had come, and brought new shades of dark and light that cast unreadable shadows. 

This life was new, but the othering wasn't. They'd both lived it before. Waking up to the foreign landscape of an alien planet, where the shapes you love are no longer there, and the ones you recognize are actually filled with a stranger. 

They understood what it was to live through the end of a world. 

But sometimes. 

Sometimes they still ached for what had been. 

"Tell me about your day." 

Stiles looked up at Peter, a slightly confused furrow to his brow. 

"You were there for most of it." 

"Tell me about your day," Peter repeated stubbornly, willing Stiles to understand. He shouldn't have worried. Stiles always understood. 

The crease in his forehead smoothed out after a moment, and a beat later he began to talk. 

"I went to the store after we met with Yen this morning. I think they must have a new kid doing the stocking, because I keep finding cans of corn where the black beans are supposed to be."

Peter relaxed a little, listening. 

"Those rock hard granola bars you like were on sale, so I bought a bunch. I got more eggs too, so we can have french toast in the morning if that sounds good to you. No cinnamon, though. You'll have to go pick some up sometime this week." 

There was a county-wide ban on mages buying spices. Many of them were necessary for spellwork. It was seen as an "unnecessary temptation." Spices had to be purchased by a non-magic user who could monitor their use. Peter pursed his lips and nodded. 

"I got the stuff to try out that recipe that Cora sent, too- the Pão de Queijo." 

Cora had gone to Brazil as soon as the 'were reveal was made. She felt safer with her older, much larger pack. Peter was the only Hale left in North America. 

"They're loaded with cheese, though, so they're definitely not low choles-"

Stiles stopped talking, face blank for a moment. 

No one he cooked for needed to watch their cholesterol. 

Sometimes they ached for what had been. 

But more often, they ached with the need to burn what it had become. 

* * *

The only detour Peter made on his way to Stiles was to visit Scott McCall. 

It was appallingly easy. Scott had always been a terrible werewolf. He was given the gift of supernatural senses, and then refused to use them. The biggest fault of Peter's madness was biting him. 

Peter gladly rectified his mistake. 

Never one to ignore his flair for the dramatic, he left the head on the doorstep of a local pro-registration politician.

He returned to his journey with red eyes and a single destination in mind.

* * *

The closer Peter got, the more he could feel Stiles. He never moved. 

He was waiting. 

Peter could feel the suppressed power of his other half, simmering under the surface, ready to erupt. 

He kept walking, and then he was there. 

Peter stared up at the prison, moonlight above him and foxglove beneath his feet. 

Their bond screamed with relief at their close reunion. 

Peter let out a single claw and scraped through a rune over the doorway of the building. 

A moment later, he saw a bright flash of light through the windows, and then the screams started. He waited patiently outside. 

Once everything was quiet, the door opened. Stiles walked out. 

He was twice as beautiful as he was bloody. 

Stiles took his hand as soon as he was close enough. Peter handed him a sprig of foxglove. 

"I missed you." 

"I was with you." 

"Still. I missed you."

Stiles smiled as he took the flower, and then Peter's hand. 

"Let's finish it." 

**Author's Note:**

> (I didn't actually steal my laptop.)
> 
> (Probably.)


End file.
